


Keepsake

by FushigiNoKuniNo



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Gen, but something of the sort, canon-typical sadness, magnus archives creations challenge, mutual not-quite-pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-14
Updated: 2019-05-14
Packaged: 2020-03-05 15:17:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18831280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FushigiNoKuniNo/pseuds/FushigiNoKuniNo
Summary: The bones were dry in Martin’s hands, a melancholy ivory stripped of everything but time. Well preserved, after two-hundred years housed in a building dedicated to documents and dusty memories, but little else could be said for them.(Written for the Magnus Archives Creations Challenge. General season 4 spoilers.)





	Keepsake

The bones were dry in Martin’s hands, a melancholy ivory stripped of everything but time. Well preserved, after two-hundred years housed in a building dedicated to documents and dusty memories, but little else could be said for them. They whispered no secrets, revealed no preternatural power. No passions yet survived, stamped on the lifeless things. They were, he knew, no more Barnabas Bennett than the mug he had left down in the Archives was Martin Blackwood.

These things were relics, nothing more, and it could not have been affection that led Jonah Magnus to collect and keep them. They had been stored with no particular care, easy enough to find, but just as easily out of sight and mind. When they had served their secret purpose, whatever it might be, they were sure to be discarded like Bennett himself had been.

Yet still, in a way, Martin envied him.

Ridiculous, to envy a man who died alone and afraid. But the loneliness was inevitable, and death’s terrors paled in the face of what other fates might come.

If he could crumble, fall into nothingness, with even the faintest hope that someone would grieve him, gather his bones and tuck them away…

He could not, of course. There could be no more hesitation on his part. No more burdens left to bear down on Jon’s shoulders alone. That he had vowed, and he would not shrink from what it entailed merely because he was afraid.

But he _was_ afraid.

It was the uncertainty that plagued him. There was no means to get the information he needed— _they_ needed—about Peter’s plan without agreeing to take part in it, of that he was sure. But were he to go one step too far, cross that unseen threshold... He would lose himself. And he wouldn’t even notice it happening. 

He had tried, many times, to imagine who he would be without that heavy, haunting yearning to talk to Jon. To see him again, at last, and to tell him everything. To speak until his throat ached, knowing that for however long he did, at least, Jon would be there.

Martin well understood that most people considered that weakness. Thought him foolish, for relentlessly _caring_ no matter how little hope there was of it ever being noticed or reciprocated. But he couldn’t find it in himself to regret how he was, how he had always been, for it was that quality that had brought him to Jon. That had allowed him to keep faith, where others descended into paranoia and resentment. That had lent him the courage to face down Elias, knowing how it would end. That now drove him to risk everything to prevent the world, despite all he knew of it, from falling to fear. 

To lose that part of himself...it would be a loss more profound than death, to be certain. It would mean his failure, all his efforts come to naught, for whatever parody of himself emerged from the Lonely wouldn’t...it wouldn’t love Jon. Wouldn’t protect him in a thousand ways great and small. Wouldn’t show him how to stop the world, and all that he treasured within it, from ending.

Yet that Martin would, somehow, continue, his life stretching lone and level before him.

He was afraid.

And it didn’t matter.

With a firm resignation, Martin carefully replaced the bones where he had found them. It was far past the Institute’s closing time, and Peter had left over an hour ago. He would need to wait until the morrow to speak with him.

He glanced over to the box of statements in the corner. The tapes within, he would not allow to become detritus of a bygone era. They would be the thread binding him and Jon together, the cornerstone of the countermeasures they would construct. He had to believe that. The alternative was too painful to be borne.

But he would record one more, as soon as possible, in case—just in case. 

Martin left the office, closing the door behind him. He was much too preoccupied to notice the latch fail to click.

 

* * *

 

Midnight at the Institute saw its Archivist in the staff kitchen, carefully drying the mug in his hands.

Jon had come to see washing dishes as something of a soothing task. He avoided it during the hours when employees from the other departments would be hovering, but late at night, like this, it was...pleasant. And the others seemed to appreciate it, so he found himself cleaning their cups more and more often, these days.

Today, it was the two mugs belonging to him and Daisy—used during an afternoon break that had devolved into them only half listening to the Archers as they clicked through an old folder of Admiral pictures Jon had discovered on his laptop—which needed taking care of.

And then there was this one.

It was hardly a remarkable object, all things considered. Its exterior was plain, no logo or pattern adorning it, and the color, too, was only a shade or two off from standard white. Ivory, perhaps. Martin had said once that it was the shape of it he liked—and Jon had been forced to admit that there was a certain elegance to the design, wider at its asymmetrical, sloping brim than its base. Carrying it, as he did now on his way back to the Archives, he always felt that the handle, curved so as to be broad and flat where it connected to the body at the top, had a certain tactile weight to it that made it satisfying to grip.

He never used the mug, of course. That wasn’t why he kept it. But he made sure that it was clean. Just in case.

If Martin were to change his mind, if he were to come back…

Well, he would surely accept a cup of tea. Would ask for far too much sugar in his Earl Grey, which Jon would add, though he would wrinkle his nose and scoff. At this, Martin would smile, and relax. And they...they would talk, like they used to. _More_ than they used to, because Jon would be making an effort. He would speak openly, and honestly, and say the things he ought to have said months and years ago.

He _would_ , if only he had the chance.

It was a bit stupid, he supposed. But the mug was a reminder. A symbol. So he placed it back on his desk, along with his and Daisy’s, just far enough from where he sat to not be in danger from an accidental sweep of the hand.

He stood for a moment, considering it. Then he made up his mind.

He would figure out what Lukas was plotting. He had to.

He prepared for another foray into Elias’s office.

**Author's Note:**

> My prompt was "Ivory," in case it wasn't clear from my unsubtle adjective usage. ;)
> 
> This was always going to be about Martin, but wow did his "I'm fine" back there get me feeling some kind of way. So I had to drop Jon in as well. Because they're definitely going to find a way out of this, together. _So help me, they are._ *shakes fist*
> 
> Find me on tumblr @stopitjon!


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